Wack-a-doodle-doo

Chello kids.  In case anyone was wondering, Anth and the girl that stood him up rescheduled their date for Friday – so no funny stories to report on that mess, BLAST!

 

Today I need to discuss a serious issue.  Whore houses.  I’m pretty sure my neighbor is running one, and the right and left sides of my brain are having an all out civil war trying to figure out what to do about it. 

 

When I moved in with the boys last February they sent out an email to all of their friends inviting them to our super bowl party, and when they described how to get to our townhome in all seriousness they said:  “1234 Main Street Unit 5, 2 doors down from the whore house.”  I guess people were supposed to be like, “Hrmm… Main street… hmm… where is that?  OH the whore house, ok got it.”  At the time, I had only been living there for 2 weeks so I didn’t know what whore house they were referring to or if they were secretly talking about me in code with 35 of their closes friends while I was CC’d on the email, so I just left it alone.

 

Let me first say, our neighborhood has been described as “Posh” by the British man Betty forced me to bring home.  Our house is not posh, but the neighborhood is.  And for those of you that don’t speak British, that means nice.  So to me, it was rather unlikely that there would be an actual whore house on our block so all talk of the whore house the first 5 months I lived there got filed away in my brain.

 

When summer rolled around I started to notice random whorish looking girls hanging around outside of the condo 2 doors down looking like they had nowhere to be but on their backs. I took that and the comments with a grain of salt since I had never seen the person that lived in the apartment.  One night, I’m getting myself all tucked into bed around midnight when I heard someone right outside my door saying, “Marcy…Marcy…Marcyyyyyyyyyyyyy I need youuuu!!”  This was when I lived in the dungeon so I wasn’t about to flip on the light and find some cray cray staring in the window at me.  In the morning JM had told me he heard it too and was looking out his window and eventually saw the person go in the Whore House.   That was enough justification for me to believe it was actually a whore house.

 

Later that day I googled, “1234 Main Street Whore House” and found, “Marcy, PhD, Sex Addiction Psychiatrist -1234 Main Street Unit 3” AND “Barry’s Salon and Massage Parlor –  A Happy Ending Massage 1235 Main Street”  So I don’t know, this is either really smart or really mean on Marcy PhD’s part, but it explained a lot.

 

Apparently at the following home owners association meeting someone filed a complaint that Marcy PhD’s coo-coo birds were littering in the courtyard and you know having a business out of her home was illegal in the association, but they’d look past it as long as the crazies kept their condoms and their cigs off of the lawn.  Fair enough, right?

 

Everything was all good in the hood until last night when I heard that familiar song, “Marccccyy…. Marcyyy… I need you!!”  Now that I don’t live in the dungeon I had no problem flipping on my light and sticking my head out the window to see what all the commotion was about.  And when I did, I saw a full grown man, I kid you not, dressed in women’s lingerie.  I get that I live in a big city and I do live near the neighborhood that houses all of the gay bars and some of those gay bars have drag shows so I shouldn’t really be surprised to see a man walking around in lingerie.  Except that it was snowing, and it was 4am and we are a good mile from said bars, and he was barefoot, but you know I probably still shouldn’t be surprised because I’ve seen weirder things in my life.   It was a hard argument for me to not call the cops at 4am on this wackadoo, but I thought… you know Marcy PhD is doing a good thing, she’s trying to help these crazies out and if this guy goes to jail it’s not going to help his disease to get gang banged in the butt all night.  Plus, I don’t want Marcy PhD to get kicked out of the association; I need her to stay there in case I ever get addicted to sex.  Right? It’s a reasonable worry for someone who is 18 months celibate.   

 

And then he reached around into his little knapsack on his back and I thought, “Oh good, he’s going to put some clothes on.  I did the right thing not calling the cops.” And he pulled out a big giant black dildo.  Christ.  There are children in this neighborhood! The children man!!  Honestly, this was so cray cray I could’ve been dreaming, I’m still having a hard time believing I actually saw this happen.  I just couldn’t watch anymore, I turned on my fan to drown out whatever noises he would surely be making and went to bed.  This morning I saw trace amounts of red lace strewn about the lawn, I never heard the cops show up so I really don’t care to know what else happened outside my window last night. 

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2 thoughts on “Wack-a-doodle-doo

  1. Dennis Hong says:

    Oh, cut the guy some slack. Of course he was barefoot. Have you ever tried to walk through the snow in six-inch stilettos?

  2. Haha that’s a good point Dennis, I know I would much rather be walking around in the snow barefoot than dealing with balancing on heels.
    -G

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